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stand near, and, indeed, in the very presence of Milton. What do they see? Dark clothes, gray hair, and sightless eyes. Other men have better things; other men, therefore, are nobler. The stars themselves are only bright by distance: go close, and all is earthy. But vapors illuminate these. From the breath and from the countenance of God, comes light on worlds higher than they; worlds to which he has given the forms and names of Shakspeare and of Milton."

"Who, whether among the graver or less grave, is just to woman? There may be moments when the beloved tells us, and tells us truly, that we are dearer to her than life. Is not this enough? Is it not above all merit? Yet, if ever the ardor of her enthusiasm subsides-if her love ever loses, later in the day, the spirit and vicacity of its early dawn-if between the sigh and the blush, an interval is perceptible; if the arm mistakes the chair for the shoulder, what an outery is there! what a proclamation of her injustice and her inconstancy! what an alternation of shrinking and spurning at the coldness of her heart! Do we ask within if our own has retained all its ancient loyalty, all its own warmth, and all that that was poured into it? Often the true lover has little of true love compared with what he has undeservedly received and unreasonably exacts."

There is a touching benevolence in the following allusion to his advancing old age, which has been the animating spirit of his life, and gives a clear insight into his character:

"I have a pleasure," says he, “in renouncing one indulgence after another: in learning to live without so many wants. Why should I require so many more comforts than the bulk of my fellow-creatures can get? We should set an example against the selfish indulgence of the age. We should discountenance its extravagant follies. The pride and pomp of funerals is monstrous. When I die, I will spend but six pounds on mine. I have left orders for the very commonest coffin that is made for the commonest man; and six of the stoutest and very poorest men to carry me to the grave, for which each shall receive a sovereign."

Mr. Landor's effusions have lately borne a political complexion, which indicates the warmth of his zeal for the opinions and principles he has ever been ready to do battle for. The recent events in Europe have several times called forth brief letters in a terse and energetic style, characteristic of his best days, and replete with liberal sentiments. We will close our sketch with a passage from one of his most recent, which shows his appreciation of American institutions, and his deep insight into the real condition of things in Europe. It is entitled "The Presidents of France and America," and was elicited by the diplomatic difficulty which was at one time threatening the relations of the two countries, connected with M. Poussin:

"To what a height of glory might the President of France have attained if he had sprung up with her in her ascent toward freedom, if he had seconded and directed her energies,

if he had abstained but from falsehood and fraud! History neither will nor can dissemble them; the eternal city bears the eternal testimony. The words of Mazzini are not the words of an angry zealot, but are registered in the archives of every honest heart. He accuses no man without the proof of all he utters; and there was a time when such an accusation, so confirmed, would have driven the delinquent beyond the pale of honorable men's society. A bold front and swaggering gait may reduce the cowardly to silence in presence of the ferocious; not an inch farther. It has been tried of late against the Americans, and with what success? A receiver of stolen goods is defended in his roguery by a French envoy. The French envoy is requested by the Amer ican Government to reconsider the propriety of his protection; the American Government is answered with the same insolence as the Roman was, on its calm and just expostulation. The matter was submitted by the American Government to the French Cabinet. The French Cabinet defends at once both the insolence and the fraud. Passports are delivered to the envoy; he returns to France.

"Arrogance is broken into foam when it dashes on the Western shores of the Atlantic. America knows equally her interests and her dignity. Averse to war, averse to the politics of Europe, she is greatly more than a match against the united powers of that continent. France owes her money, and she will have it, although, like many a civil suit, the contest may cost her greatly more than her demands. She is not to be shuffled off or brought to a compromise by a minor piece of trickery; the amount of money is not in question. The ques tion is, whether the Americans are to be treated as ignominiously and superciliously as the Italians. At the head of the United States is a brave, a temperate, a sagacious man; no falsehood of word or deed could ever be objected to him. Americans, I hope, will pardon me for comparing their President (the indignity is unintentional) with the President of France. In one we behold the grave, sedate, veracious Englishman of England's Commonwealth, animated not indeed by a bitter spirit, but a spirit moving over vast and discord populations with strength to direct their energies and assign their courses; the other without any first principles, any determinate line of conduct, swearing to republicanism before the people, abjuring it before the priesthood, undermining it at home, battering it down abroad, delighted at transient cheers on a railroad, deaf to the distant voice of history, following his uncle where the way is tortuous, deviating where it is straight, and stopping in the midst of it to bow with equal obsequiousness to the heads of two religions. Symbolical of such a character is the tree of liberty; a tree unsound at root, shriveled at top, shedding its leaves on the laborers who plant it, and concealing the nakedness of its branches in the flutter of the garlands that bedizzen it.

"Sometimes a preference makes poor amends for a compari son; but America will pardon me thus weighing a sound President against a hollow one. Temperate and strong as she is, she will treat arrogant petulance with calm derision. The resources of France, the world well knows, are inadequate to set afloat, with soldiers and stores, any fleet that could make an impression. Her soldiers would find no field of operations, until, by the humanity and munificence of their captors, they should be employed in leveling the road to California. Besides, the Americans would rather see them perform an easier and more voluntary duty. Not only in common with the nations of Europe, but infinitely beyond them, those on the Atlantic see with abhorrence the wrongs and cruelties committed against the bravest and longest free of any on our continent."

HAT a mystery lurks beneath the folds of her garment! How strange, yet how familiar! How sad, yet how pleasant; how unkind, yet how smiling is the genius of Melancholy! She is justly impersonated as a female; for her art, her insinuating address, her lovely mien, her graceful carriage, are the prerogatives of the fair. Her portrait is painted at full length upon the tablet of memory, and too well do we know her stealthy step, her conquering whisper, and her secret sting. Her wardrobe is furnished with beautiful, yet not with gorgeous attire. She loves to wear a robe dyed rather in the soft hues of moonlight, than in the too cheerful colors of the sun. Her steps are soft and noiseless. Quickly she trips along her way, and rarely is she seen, until her mellow voice has poured its plaintive tones into the ear. Often, methinks, she mounts on agile wing, and traverses the air as soon, and with as easy flight, as soars the lark.

The genius of Melancholy is everywhere. Neither locks, nor gates, nor castles, can prevent her coming. She visits the nursery, and stands beside the boy as he gazes out of the window, exerting her mysterious charm upon his spirit, until his vision settles into a vacant stare, and his thoughts are entranced by something which language has never yet described. The boy heeds not the spell, nor knows what a lasting impress is being fixed upon his soul. Nor is aught visible to mark the first visit of Melancholy to the young heart, than a cloud upon the brow, so light, as to be known only by the once saddened observer. This mysterious spirit flies from the nursery to the school and the academic hall, and hangs upon the student's walls her sombre tapestry. The images which she draws are faint; now they can be seen, when the eye is covered with the film of dejection, and soon a flood of brighter sunlight sweeps them all away. But Melancholy has other scenes than these in which to act. She visits the king on his throne, the slave at his toil, the rich at his banquet, or when he

"Treads alone the banquet hall deserted,"

and also the poor at his humble toil. She watches, as with Argus eye, the refuges of her victims, and sees the barriers which they erect to resist her approach. She knows, too, as with omniscient mind, what time best suits her coming. The dark days, the weary frames, the adverse circumstances, the losses, the sicknesses which we dread, are instruments of her work. Of these she takes advantage, and flies in at the window of the soul, when it has been forced open by the storms of life.

Above all, the invalid is an object of her care. Especially if some lurking weariness or lethargy elude the physician's skill, and hang mysterious weights upon the frame. He who is overtasked and ought to seek the healing of some rural sports; or he that pines with indigestion, or sinks beneath some painful malady; these have need to shield themselves against her power; these are her choicest and most numerous victims. Upon these her charms work wonders, vying with the secret spells of fays and wizards. She aims to link the flesh and spirit by the same heavy chain, and to spread the body's ailments throughout every chamber of the soul. She casts her spell upon the thoughts, and tasks them with a servitude to which Egyptian bondage were liberty. She chains them down to the dust, and makes them delve in dungeons deep and dark. She often fastens them to one spot, and then drives them, like the poor brute at the mill, round and round in an endless course of painful toil. If once the mind can be apprenticed to the task of noting all bodily ailments, with their progress and their cure; and thus self, and what is most to be deplored, the worst of self, the body, becomes the highest care, then is Melancholy enthroned supreme.

But what is Melancholy? They who have felt, may know, but who can tell? It has too many forms and garbs, and charms and miseries, to be described. But surely it has saddened hearts and homes enough to have left some knowledge of its deeds, if not of its essence. Melancholy is one of those spirits which brought with them in their fall some heavenly

hues. It wraps itself in gentleness, and solitude, and love; and thus unknown, eats up the spirit's joys. Its first approaches to the mind are in disguise. The sensibilities are excited by a power so doubtful, and with such subtle admixture of pleasure and pain, that the influence is at the same time cherished and feared. The mind, grown doubly sensitive to the ills of life, retires into its most secret apartments, and from thence looks with cold contempt upon the world. It sees offence, and slight, and wrong, where once were none. It casts its own gloomy hues over every object, and sees the heavens covered with a funeral pall, while every tree, and flower, and fruit, lose their beauty, and appear of the same dull color. The landscape loses its smile; and the cloud-shadow, which once flitted over the field in sportive haste, now lingers, and spreads, and deepens. The brook ceases to murmur its song of praise; the soul's dull ear is deaf to its music. The birds sing in vain; insects fly and skip; the cattle low; the yearlings frolic as ever; but the melancholy mind sees neither beauty nor joy around. It mourns as if every day were the funeral day of nature, and all her joys were lost in death. Or, if some things seem full of hope and bliss, they only sadden the spirit by revealing in contrast how dark and joyless is its inward state. Lest the smiles of friends should break this gloomy spell, Melancholy drives its victim into solitude, and often borrowing the garb of religious meditation, teaches the soul to shun companionship.. So off the poor man goes into fields and woods, dreading nothing more than the sympathy of friends. The world's indifference he heeds not; its charms and its pains are alike powerless. He has gotten above or beneath their reach. But one tender word would break the swollen tear-gland, and make the pent-up waters of emotion gush forth. Thus suddenly exposed, the melancholy mind shrinks

with shame from the sight even of the most intimate friendship, and longs to be alone.

Let now some voice from reason or from anxious friend inquire, Why this world of sorrow is crowded into one poor soul? What mighty grief has bowed thee to the dust? Why have light, and beauty, and joy, all fled from earth, and left it desolate to thee? There is no answer to this question. These are wasted griefs and causeless tears. The soul knoweth its bitterness, but yet finds not the gall. It is drowned in misery, yet unwilling to be saved. It comes to the door and looks out upon a joyous world, and then, like a frantic horse rushing into flames, turns sullenly to the renewal of its self-inflicted miseries. Henry Kirke White, who was one of the victims of melancholy, thus describes these singular emotions:

"But tho' impressions calm and sad
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,
And I am inly glad,

The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,
I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad."

With all its deceiving smiles, and with all the gentleness of its address, it is yet a malign spirit. It betrays and ruins multitudes; its end is often in the asylum. Let it, then, be resisted at the outset. Dash away its clouds. Break loose from its charm. Sit not down to muse over imaginary woe, lest a spell enchain thee, and thou never rise. Throw thyself with the frankness of a benevolent soul into the swift current of human life, and there act with earnestness. Let not the siren voice of this deceiver call thee away from duty, to study what griefs thou canst discover.

"Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?

Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?

Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold ?—
Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt prove."

WEEP not for those who are no more,

But joy that they are gone
Where every strife and struggle's o'er,
And peace and they are one.

For absent friends shed not a tear,
But let their imaged smile,
In all its pristine beauty, here
The weary time beguile.

Weep not when, by the tempest toss'd,
No beacon glads your eye;

Nor yet despair when all seems lost,
For then is comfort nigh.
Though pleasure's ne'er without alloy.
Let me this truth disclose:
There is no grief unback'd by joy,
No thorn without a rose.

AT no great distance from the city of Chihuahua, in a vast plain, is a small village in the centre of a deep wood, almost wholly unknown save to the wandering hunter, and the few inhabitants who dwell in its poor huts. It is called Torpedo. Twenty sheds, with roofs, it is true, but with scarcely any walls save on the northern side, composed, with one exception, the small hamlet. A neat wooden hut stood aloof from the rest, marking an advanced degree of civilization which excited the wonder, but not the emulation, of the happy but idle and poverty-stricken Mexicans. This hut had been built by an American who, having taken to the woods after a quarrel in the capital, had selected this obscure retreat for himself and his two boys, now orphan youths of nineteen and twenty. The Mexicans did as their fathers did before them: they planted a little maize and a few vegetables; they caught wild horses, and hunted enough to procure what was strictly necessary; and after this meed of exertion, thought themselves justified in spending their leisure hours, at least nine months in the year, in smoking, drinking pulque, and gambling for the few rags which they managed to procure in exchange for a little surplus maize, some fowls, and other commodities which their wives and daughters took to the market of Chihuahua. Zealous and Patient Jones, the lads above mentioned, were very far from being satisfied with this state of existence. They worked six days in the week, they went to market themselves, they took there six times as much produce as did any other two men in Torpedo; they bartered tobacco-the vaporous luxury of all idle nations and idle people-against maize and wild turkeys, and at the time we speak of, bade fair to make of the lethargic village a place of trade, and hence a place of prosperity. Though only just emerging from boyhood, they could have bought the whole village, inhabitants and all.

But Zealous and Patient Jones had no such vast desires; and of all the men, women and children residing in the hamlet, they coveted only the possession of two. These were Zanetta and Julietta, the daughters of the alcalde or mayor of the small locality. Zealous loved Zanetta, and Patient loved Julietta. Their affection was warmly returned, and nothing was wanting to their felicity but the passage of a year, when it was agreed

that all parties would have arrived at their years of discretion, which, however, are oftener supposed to be reached than really attained.

It was a warm autumn afternoon, and the brothers sat at their door enjoying the refreshing breeze wafted over the trembling tree-tops, and odorous with floral richness. They were talking of the future, and of the world of which they knew so little, when a horseman suddenly appeared before them. He wore a costume which was not of the country, and had features which reminded them in their character of their departed parent. They rose as the traveler halted before their hut, and asked, in very bad Mexican, the way to Chihuahua. Zealous hurriedly replied in English that it was eleven miles off.

"I expect you're countrymen," said the horseman, much surprised.

"We are from New York State," replied Zeal

ous.

“Well, that's pleasant. I'm dead beat, so is my horse. Will you give a countryman a shakedown for a night?"

The young men eagerly proffered their hut; and while one held the horse's head, the other assisted the traveler to dismount. Mr. Bennett, a merchant who traveled annually to Mexico, was the visitor the hospitable Americans had received; and it was difficult to say who derived most pleasure from the meeting. Mr. Bennett was delighted with the candor of the young men; they with his conversation and knowledge. He gave them glowing descriptions of the world; of the power and advantages of wealth; of the delights of an existence among one's fellows; and in fact so fired their imaginations, that when he sought his Mexican grass hammock, the brothers were wholly unable to sleep. They talked, they thought of nothing save the world; and when the traveler quitted them next day, they felt for the first time impatient and discontented.

"I have a great mind to turn gambusino, and go gold-hunting in the mountains," said Zealous. "I should like to become rich, and return to my native land."

"For me," cried Patient, less wild and fiery than his elder brother, "I could wish to find some hidden spring in yonder forests, and there found a village." The country was bare of water, and a spring in the wood was a treasure which enabled

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the fortunate finder to fertilize a vast property, if he had enterprise sufficient to carry out his plan. "It would be scarcely worth abandoning our home for that," said the ambitious Zealous, and the conversation dropped. But the thoughts remained, and at the end of a week Zealous had become so infatuated, and so restlessly eager to become rich, that taking a horse, a rifle, powder, shot, a mattock, and a few clothes, he started toward the far-distant gold mountains without even bidding adieu to his brother or Zanetta, so alarmed was he that his visionary enterprise should be prevented.

Though Zealous had quitted humble prosperity, gentle and real happiness, to go run the world for mere money, he was no common youth. He had genius, couarge, and determination, and his whole conduct displayed these qualities. From time immemorial, it had been a tradition that the mountains of California were full of gold, and regularly every year some ardent and young spirits started in search of the precious metal, to meet only with death or disappointment. Few returned, and of these few none ever brought any portion of gold worth the labor of their search. They hinted at vast treasures discovered in places so distant and difficult, as to preclude their being reached with mules or horses, and returned to the search with renewed zest, but always alone, each man expecting to be the fortunate one, and refusing to share his visioned wealth with a partner. Zealous Jones knew all this, and was determined to take warning by the fate of his fellows. He traveled slowly and steadily, used as little as possible of his powder and shot, and when he killed game, bore away the remains to be eaten with wild fruits, berries, and the esculent roots of the tropics. He was careful, too, of his horse, and reached the entrance of the hilly regions without having violently fatigued man or beast. He then rested two days in the mouth of a sublime gorge of the mountains, where cliff and rock, tree and water, height and vastness, all combined to give grandeur to the scene. But Zealous thought little of the magnificent landscape his eye, wandering over the green plains behind, seemed to wish to pierce space, and discover, five hundred miles behind, the forms of his brother and his affianced wife. Once or twice his heart was touched; but a glance at the mighty ramparts of the gold region roused within him other thoughts, and he still advanced on his perilous journey.

Months passed, and Zealous was still wandering in the hills, now ascending steep gorges, now precipitous cliffs, that forced him to abandon his faithful horse to graze at their feet; now leaving

him a whole day to feed the length of his tether while he explored the rugged hills, mattock in hand, in search of gold; now traveling over lofty table-plains; now resting in delicious valleys scarce if ever trod before by the foot of man; but never finding a trace of the treacherous metal that had lured him from home. Zealous was getting gaunt and thin, his clothes were in rags, his horse was lame, and his ammunition was nearly all spent, having only lasted until now be cause Zealous had starved himself to spare it.

Overcome by these considerations, he determined to make a halt in a green valley watered by a stream that formed a pool in the centre. He bathed his hardy steed, examined his feet, and left him to graze unbound, quite certain of his not leaving the valley, and took himself to the water. He floated an hour in the warm sun on the surface of the water, and then struck for the shore, on the banks of which something sparkling made his heart leap. He tore up a handful, and the glittering globules of pure gold revealed the riches of the valley. To dress, to seize his mattock, to tear up the ground, was the work of an instant. The whole mass was full of the precious metal; and forgetting all cares, Zealous began his work of gold-washing and digging. A mat. tock, a basket of green-willow boughs--such were all his tools; but a month's arduous labor put him in possession of a heap of treasure perfectly marvelous. He now thought of returning, when the fatal idea entered his head-how was his treasure to be removed? Zealous stood speechless with astonishment and despair. His horse, though fattened by a month's rest, was unable to bear much more than himself and his heavy rifle. He accordingly resolved to take a little, bury the rest, and return to the settlements in search of assistance. He accordingly restored the precious heap to its former position, mounted his steed with a small parcel of gold, and began his journey back. It was difficult and painful. Hunger came upon him, his ammunition was all spent, and a few days made him despair of reaching home. A fever and ague, contracted in the mountains, came strong upon him, and his mind began to wander. He gained at length the vast forest that bordered his home, but at nightfall was exhausted with sickness and fatigue. He alighted, lit a fire with difficulty, and lay down beside it to die. The fever was raging, and he lost consciousness.

When he recovered, he was in a comfortable bed in a large farmhouse, with every sign of opu lence and wealth. Patient and his wife were beside him. His brother had sought his fire from curiosity in time to save him. The greeting was